The Stubborn Souls Are The Losers Here Tonight
by Supernaturalverse
Summary: Even after all these years, she's still watching out for him.


Author's Notes: You may not have noticed but, we're John fans, lol. Well kind of, we were until one episode left us wondering exactly how much John did indeed give a damn about Dean and Sam (hey that rhymed). With too many plot holes which left us wondering why John didn't show up when the boys needed him, I needed to try and find my John muse once more --- which was hard because I'm having to realign my mental time lines again (thank you, Kripke) --- so, to bring back the John love for Sarah and myself, I had to break him a little (and will break him some more in the future) and I thought I'd try my hand at a John/Mary fic before returning to the others. He truly loved her, and after her loss, I don't think he ever found himself again. I'm not really sure he wanted to, or even if he could. Anyway, here we go...

On an unrelated note, my John has some women issues. In my computer's documents, I currently have three fics side by side which read, "John & Mary", "John & Aaren", "John & Dana"...Though maybe I just need to be more creative in my titling. Pink cookies to whoever can guess where this fic's title comes from!

~Mellie Anderson

* * *

He stumbles through the door, eyes half lidded and bloodshot. She watches as he trips over an undone boot lace and nearly clears the cluttered bedside table, knocking an empty whiskey bottle to the floor. As it shatters on impact, shards sprinkling the tattered carpeting with little sparkling glass rays, she winces a little, worrying he may cut himself on it. He barely takes notice, staggering forward before collapsing on the unmade bed.

Off to the side, somewhere between the tiny bathroom and a small dinette table, she stands, her face forlorn as she watches him struggle with his jacket. He pats the front of the soft brown exterior several times, as if searching for something before finally reaching a hand in and pulling out a cell phone. He stares at it a few moments, before flipping it open with the heavy sigh of someone lost. After he punches in a few buttons, he holds the phone up to his ear, his hand gripping it so tight his fingers go white. As he listens to the message being played, he squints his eyes tightly shut, reaching his free hand up to cup his mouth and nose. After a few seconds, he moves his hand to his forehead, almost holding his head up as he lets the arm holding the phone dangle slightly.

She continues to watch, yearning to go comfort him, but remaining where she stands, her only reaction being a cringe as he suddenly throws the phone across the room. Her eyes follow as it bounces onto the ragged couch, before turning back to him.

His hands now clasped between his legs, he's leaning forward, rocking back and forth pensively as his gaze fixates on a bald spot in the carpet. He's upset, it's visible on his face, with every tired line showing. She has an idea who it was who left the message. And she knows he's kicking himself for not taking the phone call when it originally rang. But it's one of the ways he protects himself, she knows that, it's something he's always done. Shut out what hurts --- shut out what can hurt --- keep on pushing forward until you forget what it was you were pushing away in the first place. If only he'd realize the hurt would be less if he reached out...But it was that damned stubborn streak that kept him isolated.

A long sigh escapes him, hitching at the end as he looks upward for a moment, his eyes watery as he mumbles something incoherent. With a shake of his head, his gaze falls back down, his hand absently moving to scratch at his disheveled, unwashed hair as a louder mutter permeates the air, "Son of a bitch..."

At the familiar reaction, she smiles a little, more for the lost memory then the current moment. "Careful, love, I may take offense to that..."

But the words fall on deaf ears, as he continues to speak, his voice thick, weary in quality: "Dammit, Dean...How the Hell did you manage to get yourself into that position?" Another heavy sigh, this one slightly more akin to a growl thrusts past his lips, as his frustrated hand swings out in anger, clearing what remained on top of the bedside table. "I told you to be careful! I taught you what to do...And...And you..." A choking sound close to a sob overcame his ranting, and he pauses for a moment, his hand finding a way back to cupping his mouth, almost as if hoping it would quiet the noise. "You shoulda..." He pauses again, switching tracks, "_I_ shoulda been there..."

Her face contorts into a vision of concern, and she finally takes a few steps closer, coasting along the carpeting until she can ease her form onto the bedspread. She begins to reach out to touch the hunched back which faces her, but stops short, pulling her hand back and allowing it to rest on the covers. "You didn't know what would happen..." She soothes, "If you had, you would have gone..."

Reiterating her point, he continues, his voice almost wistful now, "But...I didn't know that was gonna happen...If I did..." Another sigh escapes him, and he rubs furiously at his forehead, before adding quietly, "I wouldn't have let it...I swear I wouldn't have..."

She moves her hand again, once more reaching out, and lets her it gently graze his broad shoulder, "Sweetheart..."

Hanging his head again, he clutches his hands together tightly, his voice becoming a little stronger, if not sadder, in it's conviction, "He has Sammy, he'll be fine," As he speaks, it sounds more like he is trying to convince himself, rather than announce a fact, "He doesn't need me...he has Sam...Sam...will make sure he's alright..." Another hitch finds it's way onto the final word, and his body shakes with a shudder, "Mary..." He whispers mournfully.

She replies, her own voice scarcely above his whisper, the hand near his shoulder barely making an impact, "Yes, John?"

"I need you..." He says, falling back onto the bed and drawing his long, lean legs up. Wrapping his arm around his own midsection, a choking sound rattling out through his throat. "God, I love you..."

She says nothing, merely gazes at him sorrowfully, before moving her hand to lightly skim his stubbled cheek. As she watches, tears slip from the corners of his eyes which stare dejectedly forward until sleep finally overtakes them.

And in the morning, she knows it'll start all over again.


End file.
